“The immediate danger is over, Tricia,” Christian said in a soothing tone.
“Wonderful. You can go away then.”
She stomped out of the front door and, despite her bravado, her heart gave a little leap of relief when she saw the black limousine still waiting for them outside. Although she was hurrying in front, Christian managed to pass her and have the car door open for her when she reached the road. She climbed in and crossed her arms.
Once the vehicle was moving, Christian slid closer to her with a disarming grin and ran a fingertip down her arm. There was no hint left of the formidable man who’d stood up to the duke. Instead, he behaved like the charming Comte she’d known years ago, a man who’d spent his days inspecting his vineyards and romancing her. She should be frightened after seeing him blast fire from a sceptre that appeared out of thin air, but her mind couldn’t summon fear. This was her Christian. The man she’d loved. But did she still love him? Was it possible to forgive him for hurting her?
“You know I would never let Buckland take you, don’t you?”
“I won’t let him take me,” she retorted, knowing full well after what she’d seen tonight that the duke wouldn’t ask for her permission. She’d admired the Institute’s patron as a strong, powerful man who got things done. Now the thought of his attitude to her made her temper simmer. “Why did the duke call me a butterfly?”
Christian’s breath sighed out and he laced his fingers through hers. “Buckland is old school and rather medieval in his attitudes. Butterfly is normally a term of endearment, mon amour.”
The limo pulled up outside Tricia’s small house.
“May I come inside?” he asked.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“The term butterfly for a woman was coined centuries ago. The Sons of Ra are all male as the name suggests, but there are women who carry the gene. These women are always drawn to us, like moths to a flame.” He smiled. “I don’t know if someone confused butterflies and moths, but that’s where the term originated.”
“So I carry the gene? Any son I have will be like you?”
“Only a son fathered by one of the Sons of Ra.”
Tricia stared at the back of the driver’s seat her eyes losing focus. She and her ex husband had tried unsuccessfully for five years to have a baby. “If that’s why the duke thinks I’m worth fighting over he needn’t bother. I can’t have children.”
She expected Christian to express shock, sorrow, offer the usual platitudes. Instead, the gentle stroke of his fingers continued brushing her arm. “You’ll only be able to conceive a child with one of us.”
“What?” Tricia’s temper shot to boiling in an instant. She elbowed him away, pulling on the door handle.
“Wait, Tricia.”
She jumped out of the car and rounded on him. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Tears filled her eyes, ached in her chest. By keeping quiet, he’d sentenced her to years of heartbreak trying for a baby she couldn’t have. She’d lost her husband through the strain the experience had put on their relationship. “When you sent me away, you knew I wouldn’t be able to have a child with another man because of this bloody gene. But you didn’t think that fact was worth telling me?”
She pivoted away from the car and ran up the steps to her front door, fumbling for the key in her purse.
“Tricia, calm down.” Christian gripped her shoulders and she ducked away from his touch.
“Get lost. You had a chance to tell me all this twenty years ago. Instead of helping me to understand, you cut me off with no explanation, even though you knew it would affect my life.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what? From jerks like the duke? Strange that I’ve been working for him for the last twelve years then, isn’t it?” Her fingers finally closed around her key and she jammed it in the lock. She tried to squeeze through the door and shut Christian out, but he wedged a foot in the gap.
She gave up trying to exclude him and retreated to the kitchen, flicking on all the lights as she went. The front door closed and she heard the deadlock click and the security chain engage. “We’ll stay here tonight,” Christian said, following her into the kitchen. “You’re tired and distressed. Buckland has enough on his plate this evening dealing with his son. I doubt he’ll come for you.”
“You’re not staying with me,” she snapped.
Ignoring her, he found two mugs and started to make coffee. She stood on the opposite side of the kitchen, watching him. His lithe perfectly balanced body radiated youthful energy. His skin was smooth, not a line or wrinkle in sight. His thick hair gleamed gold under the kitchen spotlights. She turned and stared at her reflection in the glass cabinet doors. She’d kept her figure because she hadn’t had children. Only a few grey hairs had invaded her brown locks. At a pinch, she might pass for thirty-five. Even that age difference might not have mattered, but she would continue to age and he wouldn’t.
Once she would have sold her soul to be with Christian, but times changed. Whatever his reasons, he hadn’t wanted her enough to be honest with her twenty years ago. If the Duke of Buckland had realized she had the magic gene, he’d have spirited her away to some private estate and paired her off with one of his men like a brood mare. When Christian turned her away, he’d left her vulnerable. She didn’t owe him a thing. She would not return to France with him. The damn Duke of Buckland didn’t own the whole of the UK. There must be a place outside of his control where she could live.
While Christian had his back to her, she removed her shoes and walked quietly down the hall, up the stairs and into her room, shutting her bedroom door firmly behind her.
Tricia prepared for bed like an automaton, her mind numb with shock and fatigue. Wearing her oversized T-shirt, she switched off the light and snuggled under her covers.
A knock sounded on the door. “Tricia, I have your coffee.”
She didn’t answer, hoping Christian would think she was asleep and leave her alone.
“I know you’re awake.” The door opened. Christian stood in the gap, the masculine angles of his body silhouetted against the hall light.
Her treacherous heart lurched. They had never been in a bedroom together. Although they’d been inseparable during the six weeks of her stay in France when she was eighteen, he had always been a gentleman, never taking advantage of her.
“I don’t want coffee. Go away.”
He ambled in and placed the mug on her nightstand, then switched on the bedside lamp. “A hot drink will do you good. You haven’t eaten anything since you arrived at the chateau this morning.”
“I’ve already cleaned my teeth.”
Christian sat on the edge of her bed and she made a performance of dragging the covers higher to show she was annoyed. He placed a hand on the pillow on either side of her head and leaned closer. Tricia froze, trapped in the flare of green fire in his eyes. Twenty years dropped away and her body tingled in expectation. “I won’t come to France with you.”
The corners of his lips tucked up as if he were trying not to smile. “I’d forgotten how stubborn you are.” He ducked his head and pressed firm, warm lips over hers. Her eyelids fell at the silky slide of his mouth. Even as she pledged not to touch him, her palm curved around his stubbly cheek. She’d dreamed of this endlessly, before she met her husband, while she was married to her husband, and after the poor man left. She’d always blamed their divorce on her infertility. In truth, it had more to do with her attitude. Her husband had never replaced Christian in her heart. She doubted anyone ever could.
Christian kicked off his shoes and stretched out on top of the covers at her side. His fingers traced her features with a feather-light touch. “I’ve missed you every day since you left, mon adorée. After I lost you, I spent weeks in cleansing fire to kill the pain. When I emerged I was younger and stronger, but my heart hurt as much as ever.”